


The Fine Art of Cooking

by lou_beatrix



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: I'm Sorry, M/M, and i purposefully didn't include chicken wrapped in parma ham in this fic, because if i had i would've had to pitch myself off a bridge as punishment, since we all know that louis is absolute shit at cooking, this is barely an au, yes there are a few references to the HL cooking show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 09:14:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4257765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lou_beatrix/pseuds/lou_beatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis can't cook a meal to save his life. Actually, if he tries to cook, he might potentially /risk/ the lives of everyone in his building. His neighbor, Harry, gives in after Louis sets the fire alarm off for the fiftieth time that week and starts giving him cooking lessons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fine Art of Cooking

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [The Fine Art of Cooking | Искусство кулинарии](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10591317) by [menthol_ocean (Risu_kii)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Risu_kii/pseuds/menthol_ocean)



“How much is a tablespoon?” Louis mutters frustratedly. He scans the cluttered, messy countertop, opens several drawers, but doesn't find what he's looking for.

“Fuck it,” he says, unscrewing the top off a bottle of olive oil. He pours what he thinks might be two tablespoons into a hot pan on the stove, but is in fact not two tablespoons. It's more like half a cup.

Louis scrolls through the recipe that's open on his tablet. It says to saute the garlic and onions, then lower the heat and add the tomatoes. He can do that. He adds the three chopped cloves of garlic and the chopped onion to the pan. It crackles loudly, but it's probably fine. He doesn't actually know what it means to saute something, so he just kind of nudges the garlic and onion around in the pan with a spatula. After a few minutes, he gets bored and decides it's time to add the tomatoes. He grabs the bowlful of chopped tomatoes and plops them into the pan. It makes popping and crackling noises, but it's supposed to do that, right?

Louis starts moving the food around in the pan again, unsure of what else to do. The pan starts steaming, which Louis thinks is probably fine. After several minutes he's gotten bored again, but keeps absentmindedly stirring while he checks his email on his phone. Suddenly he hears a sloshing and plopping noise, drawing his attention back to the stove. He sees a mess of red on the stove top and realizes that he'd pushed a piece of tomato over the side of the pan and it had fallen underneath into the gas flame. The tomato is beginning to light on fire. Louis has no idea what the fuck to do, and accidentally flings his phone across the room in a panic. He runs around the kitchen sort of flailing his limbs and looking around wildly looking for some sort of inspiration as to how the fuck to deal with his tomato fire. He's not gotten anywhere when an obnoxiously loud beep sounds off, and he groans, throwing his head back and clawing at his face.

“Fucking hell!” he shouts as the smoke alarm continues to beep out in protest, attempting to remind Louis that he has a tomato burning on his stove that he should tend to.

Louis runs out into the hall in search of the fire extinguisher the building keeps on every floor. When he exits his flat, he sees a tall man with long brown curly hair and tired green eyes staring at him with contempt from across the hall.

“Again?” is all the man says, rolling his eyes.

“Can you just help me with the fire extinguisher?” Louis shouts. He doesn't have time for his neighbor's sass.

“Move,” the man says, pushing past Louis and going into his kitchen. He quickly assesses the situation and sighs heavily. He turns off the flame on the stove, moves the pan off the burner and places it on a different one, and fills a dirty cup laying on the counter top with water and pours it over the burning tomato. He then walks over to Louis' couch, picks up a cushion and starts waving it forcefully at the smoke alarm, which is situated on the ceiling in between the kitchen and the living room. After about a minute, the alarm stops beeping. The man exhales, throws the cushion back on the couch, and flips his hair over to one side. He just stares at Louis with a look of deep frustration and disdain. Louis does not like this one bit.

“I'm sorry, I was just trying to cook,” Louis says with as much conviction as he can muster under his neighbor's death glare.

“Oh, were you?” he says sarcastically.

Louis growls. “No need to be rude. I'm trying to broaden my horizons, excuse me for attempting to improve myself as a human being.”

The man rolls his eyes again and runs his fingers through his hair again. “That would be fine if you were to actually succeed.”

“Can you actually leave, like, now? I don't need rude people barging into my flat uninvited, insulting me.”

“You're the one that set your smoke alarm off for the second time this week and probably the twentieth time this month! I'm sick of it, to be honest. I'll teach you to cook myself if that's what it takes for you to stop blasting my eardrums out with that fucking awful alarm going off at random hours.”

“I—” Louis is about to start going off on him again, but pauses. “Wait. That's actually... were you serious? Would you actually teach me to cook?”

His neighbor looks at him in surprise for a moment. “I mean—I guess? I was kidding, but like...I really cannot fucking stand that alarm. So. Yes. I will teach you to cook. And then you can leave me in peace.”

“Brilliant!” Louis says, wiping his sweaty forehead. Then he realizes something kind of important. “Yikes. This is awkward. I don't even know your name.”

“Harry,” he says, extending his hand out to Louis.

“Louis,” Louis replies, taking the hand.

“Why's your hand sticky?” Harry asks, grimacing and pulling his hand away, wiping it on his pants.

“I was cooking, you idiot,” Louis says. “Cooking is a hands-on experience. I was getting intimate with my ingredients.”

Harry laughs. “Okay, first of all, never say that again. Secondly, I'm coming over tomorrow morning for our first cooking lesson, alright?”

“Yessir,” Louis says, saluting Harry.

“Fantastic,” Harry says unenthusiastically. “Have a lovely night cleaning up this mess you've made.”

Once Harry's left and shuffled back into his own flat, Louis sighs and sets to work getting the soggy burnt tomato off his stove top.

*

There's a loud knocking noise disturbing Louis' precious sleep. He tries to ignore it, because everyone knows that if you ignore a problem long enough it just goes away. 

“Louis! Open up!” someone shouts, followed by more knocking. “It's Harry! Time for your cooking lesson!”

Louis groans. It must be five in the morning. Why is his neighbor so fucking crazy. He tumbles out of bed and stumbles out of his bedroom and over to the front door with he unlocks and opens.

“Harold,  _please_ , what are you doing at my door at such an ungodly hour?” Louis asks, rubbing his eyes. 

“It's ten-thirty. You'll be fine. Good morning to you too,” Harry replies, leaning on the door frame. “Would you like to get dressed first? I'll wait outside.”

“Huh?” Louis says in confusion. Then he looks down and realizes he's still wearing exactly what he slept in, which is a pair of briefs. Usually he wears nothing at all, thank god he decided to keep his pants on last night. “Oh. Right. Let me just...” Louis leaves the door open and walks over to a pair of gray sweatpants sprawled on the floor and steps into them. He grabs the black t-shirt hanging over the back of his couch and slips it on. “All set,” he says. “Come in.”

Harry chuckles to himself. He, of course, is fully dressed, wearing black skinny jeans and a sheer black shirt. Louis doesn't see why the fuck someone is dressed in what to him is fancy attire on a Sunday morning, but to each their own, he supposes.

“Alright. How do you feel about French toast?” Harry asks.

“I feel pretty good about it.”

“Okay, great. That'll be our first lesson. It's pretty simple. I think with my help you'll be able to handle it.” Harry walks over to the fridge and begins looking around for the ingredients he needs.

“Yes, please, help yourself,” Louis says sarcastically.

“Oh, shut it, I'm helping you, remember?” Harry says from his hunched over position with his bum stuck out. Louis doesn't respond because he is busy staring at said bum. It is very nice. Louis would like to stare at it for a little longer, but Harry stands up with his arms full of things and Louis is snapped out of his bum trance.

“You ready?” he asks.

Louis nods.

“Alright. First step is to put the eggs and milk in a bowl.” Harry opens a cabinet looking for a bowl, but Louis walks over and does it himself. “Okay. So you're going to put four eggs and 2/3 cup of milk to begin with,” Harry says, opening the carton of eggs, handing one to Louis.

Louis takes the egg and looks at Harry with a hint of fear in his eyes. This is a lot of pressure. He taps the egg lightly on the edge of the bowl, scared he's going to break it and make a fool of himself. After several rounds of tapping, he's made a very small dent in the shell.

Harry sighs. “Let me show you,” he says, taking the egg and cracking it easefully on the lip of the bowl and letting the yolk spill out into the center. He looks up at Louis, searching for any sort of glimmer of understanding in his eyes, but finds only confusion.

“How did you...?”

“Alright, let's try it this way,” Harry says, picking up another egg and placing it in Louis' hand. He cups his large hand around Louis' smaller one and guides the motions. He taps the egg on the bowl, once, twice, and then guides Louis' fingers apart to open the crack in the shell and allow the yolk to drop into the bowl.

“Think you can do it yourself?” Harry asks.

“Um...” Louis takes another egg and tries to do what Harry did. One, two, _crack!_ Shell goes everywhere and falls into the bowl, but luckily the yolk makes it into the bowl as well. “Fucking shit...” he mutters. 

Harry chuckles. “It's okay, we just have to take the shell out.” He takes a fork off the dish drying rack next to the sink and carefully extracts the shell pieces from the bowl. “One more egg, want me to do it with you again?”

Louis nods and picks up a fourth egg. Harry guides Louis' hand once more and somehow makes it look effortless and not nearly as difficult as Louis thinks it truly is. Maybe it's because he's finding it difficult to focus on learning how to crack an egg when he has a tall, fit man in a sheer shirt and very tight jeans holding his hand and standing very close to him.

“Now we add the milk. Can you get a 1/3 cup measuring cup?” Harry says, opening the spout of the milk carton he took out of Louis' fridge.

“Um...” Louis opens a few drawers, looking for such a measuring cup, knowing in the back of his mind that he doesn't have one. He just has a one cup and maybe a half cup. He finally gives in and pulls out the one cup. “This is, um...all I have,” he says sheepishly, handing it to Harry.

“I guess we can just eyeball it,” Harry says. He finds it oddly endearing how helpless this guy is. He pours milk into the measuring cup and stops at about 2/3 of the way to the top, then pours it into the bowl. “Okay, now you have to whisk the eggs and milk together.”

“I don't...” What the fuck does it mean to 'whisk?'

“Right. You probably don't have a whisk. I'll go get mine. Do you have some bread we can use?”

Louis opens his breadbox and takes out the partially eaten loaf that's wrapped in plastic. He pokes it a few times. “It's kind of stale,” he says apologetically.

“Perfect. It's better when it's a few days stale. I'll go grab my whisk and be right back.” Harry slips out of the apartment and heads into his. After a minute he strolls back in, holding what to Louis looks like what would happen if you took one of those head scratchers and folded all the prongs in on themselves. But he assumes that this is a 'whisk.'

“Alright, so you're just gonna whisk these together,” Harry says, handing it over to Louis, who just stares at it blankly.

“Um...” he begins, his face heating up in embarrassment, “How do you whisk?”

Harry laughs audibly at that, and Louis feels like an absolute dimwit. Apparently he can see it in Louis' eyes, so Harry pats him on the shoulder reassuringly and says, “I didn't mean to laugh, I'm sorry. I just have never met a grown adult who doesn't know how to whisk.” That comment definitely does not make Louis feel any better. If anything, it makes him feel worse. “Fuck, sorry,” Harry says. “I'm gonna shut up now.” He takes a step forward. “Here, lemme show you.”

Harry takes the whisk from Louis, their fingers touching ungracefully during the hand off. He grasps the bowl and tilts it slightly towards himself, and starts slowly beating the eggs and milk together. “It's just like this, yeah? It's like a circular motion, like down and up, down and up,” Harry explains. “But you wanna do it faster, it's much more effective that way,” he says, beginning to whisk very quickly. Louis eyes blow wide.

Harry hands the whisk to Louis. “You try.”

Louis tries to mimic what Harry did, down and up, down and up. He mostly ends up splashing the milk up the sides of the bowl as his wrist works in jerky movements. “Fucking hell...” he mutters, running his now sweaty fingers through his sleep disheveled hair.

“Give it here,” Harry says, extending his hand. Louis sighs dejectedly, handing the whisk over. “Gimme your hand,” he says, nodding at Louis, who extends his right hand in confusion. Harry takes it in his, arranging Louis' fingers around the handle carefully, and then covering his hand with his own. Harry starts doing the whisking motion again. “Can you feel what the motion is supposed to feel like?”

“Um...” Louis can't really think right now. He is focusing all of his energy on not letting himself get turned on by this whole experience. Because making French toast is not sexy. But it's a different story when the person you're doing it with is fit as fuck and a very hands-on teacher.

“Louis?” Harry asks, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Hm? Oh, uh, sort of. I'm not sure,” Louis replies, hoping his helplessness will encourage Harry to keep his hand right where it is.

Harry just chuckles. “Alright, we'll work on that. For now, let's just finish it up together. Do you have vanilla and cinnamon?”

“Um, probably in that cupboard?” Louis says, motioning towards a slightly ajar cabinet a few feet away. Harry releases Louis' hand, which now feels kind of cold from the lack of touch, and pokes around for a moment before finding what he needs. “You're supposed to add a tablespoon of vanilla, but I'm just gonna pour some in, because I know what a tablespoon looks like,” Harry says, tipping the vanilla into the bowl. “And then a few shakes of cinnamon,” he continues, adding the spice, then setting both small containers back on the countertop. He then takes Louis' hand again, and beats the new ingredients in. Louis, of course, is paying absolutely no attention.

“That's all set, then,” Harry says, taking the whisk from Louis and tapping the excess off on the side of the bowl, then setting it down beside the bowl. “The next thing you do is butter the pan.” He flicks on the burner, and slices a pat of butter and places it in the heating up pan. “While we wait for this to heat up a bit, take one of the slices of bread and put it in the bowl, and really submerge it. Get it completely covered.” Louis does as he's told, not thinking to use any utensils to aid him, and instead just poking the bread down with his finger, which gets a laugh out of Harry. “You could use a fork, y'know.” Louis grimaces internally and gets a fork from the drawer, too stressed to make a witty remark, which he usually would.

Harry spears the butter with the tip of the knife and swirls it around the pan, coating it, until it's completely melted. “Okay, is that piece totally covered?” Louis nods tentatively. “Alright, bring the bowl over here.” Harry then stabs the soggy bread with the fork and drops it skillfully into the pan, which sizzles. “Spatula?” he asks. Louis fumbles around and finds the one he used during last night's catastrophic events resting in the dish drainer. He hands it over to Harry, feeling scrutinized under the other boy's intense green gaze.

Harry glances over at him and bursts out laughing. “Oh my god,” he says breathlessly, trying to tame his giggles. “You look like you're scared for your life.”

Louis pouts. “Look, I feel quite stupid right now, please don't kick me while I'm down.”

“Aw,” Harry coos, placing his hand on Louis shoulder and rubbing a soothing circle with his strong fingers. “Little Louis is nervous.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Harry, but I am most likely older than you, so I am not 'little.'”

“Alright then, how old are you?” Harry questions accusingly.

“Twenty-five,” Louis announces proudly.

“Fine, you've got me beat. I'm twenty-three.”

“A-ha!” Louis shouts triumphantly.

“Oh, hush. In case you've forgotten we're in the middle of an important task here.” Harry slips the spatula underneath the piece of French toast in the pan. “Look. When you can get the spatula underneath and pick up the bread and it comes up clean like this, you're set to flip it.” He flips the bread skillfully, causing another impressive sizzling noise. Louis just nods, pretending as though he wouldn't end up chucking the bread across the room if he were to try it.

They wait in silence for a minute while the other side cooks. “Alright, got a plate ready?” Harry asks. Louis grabs a plate out of the dish drainer and sets it next to the stove. “Okay. You can check that it's cooked on the bottom again, and once it is, you just lift it up and—” he plops the piece onto the plate, “—voila. Ready for the next one? We should've soaked it while this one was cooking. I'll just turn the heat down,” he remarks, dialing down the burner.

They keep the process going, with Louis in charge of soaking the bread and Harry in charge of the actual cooking part. Louis feels like he's cheating, but it's fine. Maybe Harry will offer to teach him to cook again now that he knows how shit he is at it. Hm. Louis' not quite sure where that thought came from, but it's there. So he's just gonna...leave it there.

“Alright, that's it, we did it! French toast. Congrats,” Harry says, turning off the stove and holding the plate out to Louis.

“More like you did it. I didn't really do much,” Louis replies.

“Don't say that. Prep work is just as important as the cooking part. You did plenty.”

“But I could never have done it myself. Isn't that what I was supposed to be doing?”

“Look, you can't learn to do _anything_ in one go, can you? We'll try again.” 

“Wait—really? Are you sure this isn't a waste of your time? Like, I'm probably a hopeless case.” 

“I promise it's not a waste of my time. Anyway, let's eat this before it gets cold,” Harry says, walking the plate over to the kitchen table. 

“You sound like a mum... Food doesn't get cold that quickly. I've always thought that was so ridiculous.” 

“Oh, shove it. I just wanted to start eating. I'm hungry, sue me.” 

*

“Let's go for something simple. Pasta primavera, perhaps?” Harry suggests. It's the following night, and Harry has invited himself over for another cooking lesson. 

“What the fuck is a primavera?”

“It means 'spring' in Spanish, first of all, but it's just pasta with vegetables. Relax.” 

“Okay, see, this is where you overestimate my abilities. I set a tomato on fire the other night. Do you really think this is a good idea?” 

Harry laughs at that. “That's why I'm here, yeah? I was assuming you weren't going to have many vegetables”—Louis squawks indignantly at that assumption, even though it's completely accurate—“so I took the liberty of stopping at the store and picking some up,” Harry says, gesturing to the bag he'd placed on the counter. “Let's start with something easy. We're gonna boil the water for the pasta. It takes a while to heat up, which is why we're doing it at the beginning.” 

“I said that I can't  _cook_ , Harry, not that I'm a complete idiot. I understand how boiling water works, thank you,” Louis sneers. 

“No offense intended,” Harry replies, holding his hands up in surrender. 

Louis huffs. “Fine.” He grabs the large pot off the stovetop and fills it with water, and places it back on a burner. He did the first step all without Harry's help. He dials the burner up high, then turns to look at Harry with his hip cocked out to the side and his arms crossed over his chest, clearly very proud of himself. 

“Fantastic job,” Harry says. Louis can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not, but he decides Harry's not that mean. Then again, he doesn't actually know Harry at all. All Louis knows about him is that he:

  1. is probably fed up with Louis' inability to be a competent adult to the point of teaching him to cook for free

  2. dresses very well for what seems to Louis to be no occasion 

  3. has a very nice bum. And also other body parts. Like his face, which is Very Nice. And maybe a few other body parts too, but he should stop thinking about that. 




While Louis is caught up in his quickly escalated stream of thoughts mostly about Harry's body (yikes), Harry had taken the vegetables out of the bag. He's set to work placing everything on a cutting board, and pulling a knife out of one of the drawers. Louis idly wonders how Harry knows his way around his kitchen better than he does, but doesn't dwell on it too much. 

Harry walks him through the steps—mincing the garlic, slicing the vegetables, adding the pasta to the water—with only a few minor slip-ups. Louis may have almost stabbed Harry in the hand with the knife, but he didn't  _actually_ stab him so it's totally fine. Harry also may have also demoted him from his vegetable-slicing position, but it doesn't matter, it wasn't that fun anyways. 

Harry ends up doing most of the work again. Louis starts to wonder if he's doing it on purpose, so that he can have an excuse to cook with Louis again. But then he realizes that he should stop being an arrogant prick and pull his head out of his arse, Harry's probably just trying to avoid setting off the alarm, which is surely what would happen if he let Louis do anything. 

Once they've sat down at the table (Louis decided it was only right to open a bottle of wine, since Harry had cooked them dinner, essentially) across from each other, plates in front of them, Louis suddenly feels very self-conscious. What exactly is this? Is it just two neighbors cooking and having dinner together? Is it a date? Why is he always wearing joggers when Harry's wearing gourmet fashion? Can fashion be gourmet? Why is he such a fucking idiot? 

“Louis!” Harry calls for the fourth time, finally snapping him out of his reverie. 

“Hm?” he asks, shaking his head and trying to refocus his eyes. 

“I said your name like twenty times. You there?” 

“Oh, yeah, just spaced out for a minute.” 

“Alright, then. What I was saying was that I'd like to propose a toast,” Harry says, lifting his glass. 

“To what?” Louis asks, lifting his own. 

“To the fine art of cooking, and Louis Tomlinson's lack of skills for said art.” 

“Hear, hear!” Louis exclaims, clinking his glass to Harry's, then tilting back a large sip. “Wait,” he says, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “How'd you know my last name?” 

“I was getting my mail yesterday and looked at your mailbox. S'got your name on it.” 

“What's yours, then?” 

“Styles.” 

“Huh. Classy.” 

Harry chuckles. “You should expect nothing less.” 

Louis isn't entirely sure how it happens, but the two of them have somehow fallen into a comfortable, easy conversation. Once they've finished their plates, Harry opens the fridge and pulls out a take away container with a slice of cake in it. 

“Where did that come from?” Louis asks. 

“Picked it up at the store. Thought it'd be nice.” 

“Yeah, it's brilliant, thanks.” 

Harry places the container down in the middle of the table and hands Louis a spoon. “Dig in,” he says. 

They eat in silence for a minute. Louis only thinks it's a tiny little bit weird that they barely know each other and they're sharing a slice of cake, but he figures people do that all the time. It's economical. Simply more efficient. Louis shovels in a final bite, which is mostly just the fluffy white frosting left at the end. 

“You've got, um,” Harry says, pointing to the place on his own face where Louis' got frosting smeared on his. 

“Hm?” Louis says, wiping at his face but completely missing the frosting at the corner of his mouth.

“May I?” Harry asks, leaning forward. Louis nods. Harry moves closer and closer and then suddenly he is Right There, in Louis' space. Harry searches Louis eyes for any resistance, then leans in a bit more slowly, watching Louis' eyes for cues. Louis just stares at him in shock and fear, but the good kind. The holy-shit-fuck-throw-me-out-a-window kind. Which doesn't sound good, but it is. And then Harry is so, so close to Louis' face, and Louis has no choice but to close his eyes or else he'd go cross-eyed. And then he feels it. The soft press of lips to the corner of his mouth, and the slick of the frosting trapped between Louis skin and Harry's lips. He then feels a very delicate lick, sending a shiver down his spine, and Harry pulls back slightly, surveying Louis' face. 

“Was that totally inappropriate and awful? Just tell me to leave and I'll go. Why am I like thi—” but he can't finish his sentence, because Louis' lips are now pressed to his, sealing them shut. And then suddenly his lips are no longer sealed shut, but are equally as occupied, trying to keep up with Louis'. He can taste the frosting and the wine on Louis' tongue, and doesn't even realize that he'd reached his hand up and cupped Louis' cheek, or that Louis' hand was tangled in Harry's long hair. 

When the two break apart for air, they don't go far, resting their foreheads together. 

“To answer your question,” Louis says, panting a little bit, “that was neither inappropriate nor awful. A bit unexpected, but very much welcome.” 

Harry giggles. “Unexpected, really? I thought I was being ridiculously obvious. Like, painfully so.” 

“You might've been, but I'm an idiot and don't understand social cues. Or really anything, for that matter. Just all around stupid.” 

Harry laughs again. “Well, what you lack in smarts you make up for in looks,” he says, stroking Louis cheek. 

“Hey! What kind of backhanded compliment... Rude.” Louis pokes Harry on the nose in faux anger. 

“Shh, shh. Don't worry. I like you enough to look past your faults.” 

Louis blushes, because that's a genuine, real thing that he actually said. That's like... something you say to someone you're dating. “Was this a date?” 

Harry laughs. “Yes, you dimwit! Wow, you really are clueless.” 

“Fuck off!” Louis says, shoving Harry's shoulder, who just laughs more. “Well, fine, then. If we do this again, I elect to not make dinner. Because I have learned nothing. Mostly because I was distracted by your bum, but also because I'm useless.” 

Harry laughs again and smiles fondly. “Well now you can stare at my bum all you want without the risk of setting something on fire as a result of your inattentiveness, because I'm not letting you near a stove any time soon. And obviously we're doing this again, because I just licked frosting off your face. This is not usually how I act around people, just so you know.” 

Louis wants to make a witty comeback, but all he can do is grin, and then gets inspired to kiss Harry again, so he does. A lot more. 

*

Within three months, Harry and Louis basically live together. They switch off nights sleeping at each others' flats, running across the hall in the middle of the night to grab an extra blanket or flopping into the other's bed after a day at work. Harry wasn't lying, Louis really does get to stare at his bum all he wants, and he doesn't set anything on fire. And Harry derives great pleasure from watching Louis be completely incompetent at almost everything he does, except loving Harry. Which he does very, very well. 

And of course, Harry does all the cooking. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I think this was a prompt I got off tumblr, something about how one person in your OTP can't cook and the other one can??? idk it just kind of happened ["that was pretty much it, it just kind of happened"] [cut to me sobbing on the floor]. lmk what u think! i'm on tumblr at louis-tummy


End file.
